


Hey, Crayola

by seashadows



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale gets to say fuck, Both partners have external genitalia, Crowley's creative curse words, Established Relationship, Light BDSM, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Other, Riding Crops, Sensation Play, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 10:18:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20113495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seashadows/pseuds/seashadows
Summary: Crowley turned back around, eyes narrowed. “You know,” he said, “just because the inside of your head is an endless loop of ‘Livin’ In the Sunlight’, it doesn’t mean you can’t try to understand the way everyone else thinks.”Crowley gets in a mood and accuses Aziraphale of being too sunshiny for his own good. Aziraphale shows him otherwise.





	Hey, Crayola

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to the incredible Chrononautical/[chrononautintraining](chrononautintraining.tumblr.com) for an amazing beta job. 
> 
> My first Good Omens fic! Hope it goes over well. :)
> 
> The title comes from [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LWlrbtLlQZ8).

For once, they weren’t drinking.

Well, that wasn’t quite fair. There were plenty of times when neither Aziraphale nor Crowley felt the need to imbibe during a conversation, but most of their arguments had to do either with the things they came up with while under the influence of humanity’s best invention or with the not-so-impending-anymore end of the world. No, this argument (and the events that followed) began – as do those in even the best of relationships – with someone deciding to pick a fight for no reason at all.

Like so.

“Has anyone ever told you that you smile too damn much?” Crowley said.

Aziraphale, who hadn’t been aware that he was smiling, downgraded his expression to a puzzled frown and touched his mouth with his fingertips[i]. “No,” he said. “Well, you have, I suppose. Do you mean to tell me again?”

“No…yes…maybe.” Crowley frowned back, much more ferociously, and glared at his glass of water like it hadn’t insulted his mother[ii]. It was an expression Aziraphale knew well. “I don’t know. Sometimes it’s just – you know that old nightlight of Warlock’s? The one with the clown? You know.” He leaned back in his chair and snapped his fingers, chewing the edge of his lower lip in thought. “That thing. You look at it every night and at first it’s a laugh because it’s supposed to be scary, then you get used to it, and _then _you just get annoyed.”

“Yes, yes, the one you gave him,” Aziraphale said. “You may recall that I hadn’t much opportunity to see it every night, but I suppose I take your meaning.”

“Yeah. That.” Crowley pulled the lock of hair that always seemed to hang in his eyes. “You know, you’re far too bloody good at what you do.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow and dug back into his cake. “Someone’s in a strop,” he remarked. After six thousand years of on-and-off interactions with Crowley, he thought that he’d grown used to him, inasmuch as anyone could _really_ be completely accustomed to Crowley. Rather like the John Wayne Gacy nightlight, he supposed. “Does that have anything to do with me smiling too much, or are you on to a different topic now?”

“I’m not in a _strop!_” Crowley exclaimed. His irises expanded a little, not quite enough to cover the whites of his eyes, but getting there. “I’m bringing up a legitimate point, angel! You’re like a…” He trailed off, his face twisted in irritation.

“Nightlight. I know,” Aziraphale said.

“Not that. Not a nightlight, a _crayon_,” Crowley said. He gave a feral, self-satisfied grin. “You’re a bloody crayon. Just sunny and yellow all the way through. Dunno what color, though. Egg Yolk Yellow? Sunshine In Your Eyes When You’re Hung to the Gills Yellow? Vomitrocious?”

Now Aziraphale, loath as he was to admit it even to himself, was beginning to feel the testiness that Crowley seemed determined to spread around like a particularly pernicious case of athlete’s foot. “I’m not a crayon!” He set down his fork. “And those aren’t real colors. It’s not my fault you wouldn’t know how to _nicely_ express a good mood if someone forced you!”

“Imitated you pretty good, didn’t I?” said Crowley. “I think I know how to do it. Even if it’s agonizing. And disgusting. And intolerable.”

Aziraphale felt his lips thin. That was too far, much too far. “All right!” He picked up his fork and put it down again with rather more force than was necessary, but when he had to make a point, well, desperate measures were called for. “What’s put you in such a mood, Crowley? You’re not usually this unkind on purpose. And don’t say you’re not kind,” he added as Crowley opened his mouth, looking for all the world as if he wanted to put out a snake tongue and hiss, “because I’m not going to argue with you about that. So.” He folded his arms. “Do tell me.”

Crowley growled something in a language that Aziraphale didn’t even begin to try to identify. He was probably better off not knowing. “People,” he finally ground out. “They piss me the _fuck_ off.”

“Oh? All the time, or just today?”

Now he could hear Crowley’s teeth grinding. “Both.”

“And what brought it on today?”

Another grind. “Dented m’car.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Sorry?”

“Someone _dented my CAR!_” Crowley shouted. “Fuckin’ tosser didn’t even stick around to see, or leave a note, or anything. Why are humans such…such…”

“Tossers?” Aziraphale volunteered. “My dear, couldn’t you just take out the dent? You know.” He made a little half-waving gesture. “Like that.” When push came to shove, much as he knew Crowley loved the car[iii], he’d had it for less than a century.

Crowley slouched in his seat, hair falling into his eyes. “Yeah, but I’ll know it’s there. And that’s not the point,” he said. “Point is they could’ve taken a second not to be a right rat bastard, _half_ a second, and they didn’t. People – what a sorry lot of…of…” He trailed off, obviously unable to come up with an insult strong enough for his purposes. “Of whatever they are.”

“Well, I’m sorry that happened to you.” Aziraphale reached across the table to take Crowley’s hand. “But all’s well that ends well, isn’t it? I’m sure whoever did it is feeling terribly guilty, and –“

“Stow it,” Crowley snapped, pushing away from the table with a scrape of chair against floor. “Just – just shut up, all right?”

“Crowley…”

Crowley turned back around, eyes narrowed. “You know,” he said, “just because the inside of your head is an endless loop of ‘Livin’ In the Sunlight’, it doesn’t mean you can’t try to understand the way everyone else thinks.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to reply, but Crowley was already up and out the door of the bookshop, as attested to by the slamming noise. “I quite dislike that song, actually,” he said to no one in particular. It didn’t help his mood.

He sat in silence for a while, something teasing at his mind. “Too sunshiny,” he said finally, as the idea began to take fruition, and shook his head. He had his hidden depths, more so than anyone else - save for Crowley. 

If he couldn’t convince Crowley of that by telling him – well. _Well_. Perhaps he could show him.

* * *

He knew Crowley would come back. It was only a matter of when, and of waiting. Patience was one of an angel’s virtues, and Aziraphale was willing to accept however long it took for Crowley to come crawling back. Metaphorically, of course; that was far more likely than the literal sort of crawling for Crowley, these days.

Waiting gave him time enough to do a bit of research, anyway.

Aziraphale wasn’t terribly fond of computers, nor of the people who tended to use them religiously[iv], but there were ways to do one’s work without relying on such trackable methods. Public libraries were terribly useful, much more so than people thought, as was his ongoing communication with Madame Tracy[v]. 

What he had found had been_…interesting_ was a good word for it, he thought. _Fascinating_ was another, much as it made him feel like Spock from the old Star Trekking program. Most of all, his new information was _exciting,_ and he liked that a great deal. If learning certain new things made him feel warm and tingly as well, rather as if he’d drunk something carbonated, that was between him and the fence post. What a lovely expression. 

Crowley’s usual turnaround time could be anywhere from a day to a century; anything was fair game, and for the unending life of him, Aziraphale had never been able to figure out a pattern[vi]. All he could do, unless he were to invade Crowley’s privacy in an unthinkable manner and most likely get sprayed in the face for his troubles, was to go about his business and hope to someone that Crowley wasn’t on what he called a ‘bender.’ 

As it turned out, the bell over the bookshop door alerted him to the presence of a visitor a mere week later. “We’re closed,” Aziraphale called out from the back room. As Gabriel and his cohort were too embarrassed[vii] to show their faces at the shop anymore, then there were two possibilities as to who this could be. He didn’t particularly want to deal with customers, but Crowley - 

“It’s me, angel. Got something to say.” 

Aziraphale’s heart leapt. “Ah. I’ll be right there -” 

“No need.” Half a second later, Crowley appeared in front of him, looking very nearly contrite. His sunglasses were still on, but Aziraphale could tell by his downcast face that his eyes were probably begging him for forgiveness. Silently, of course. Anthony J. Crowley didn’t _beg._[viii]

Aziraphale intended to change that. 

“What can I do for you, Crowley?” he asked in his primmest, plummiest tone. “Have you come for a social call? I’m afraid it’s not teatime yet.” 

“You _know_ it’s not, you…!” Crowley cut himself off with a noise like a tongue being bitten off. “Right. No, that’s not what I wanted to say. I wanted to say…” He went rigid, his throat working furiously; for a moment, Aziraphale wondered if he was about to be sick. But what came out instead was a soft, “I’m sorry.” 

Aziraphale felt a slow smile spread across his face. “Oh?” 

“Sorry,” Crowley repeated, louder this time. He pulled off his glasses and stared Aziraphale full in the face. His eyes were every bit as soulful as Aziraphale had thought they would be. If only ‘snake eyes’ had the same connotations as ‘puppy eyes.’ “I shouldn’t ’ve been a berk. Not your fault some little c -” 

“_Crowley_.” He did have a limit. 

“ - I mean, some little bastard pulled a hit-and-run on me.” 

Aziraphale leveled him with a stare that could itself level cities (and, on one memorable occasion, had[ix]). “Thank you,” he said. “I accept your apology.” Crowley brightened, straightening up. “However,” Aziraphale added, holding up his index finger, “there’s still a matter of utmost import I need to discuss with you.” 

Crowley quirked an eyebrow. “Yeah?” His rigid shoulders softened into a loose-limbed, rolling, devil-may-care[x] stance that made him look as though he were slithering in place. “What’s this about? You want a lunch date?” 

“No. I mean, yes, that would be pleasant, but - no.” Aziraphale shook his head. Although there _was _his nerve. And after all the trouble he’d gone through to visit one particularly naughty shop without discorporating in a poof of humiliation and feathers[xi], he was jolly well going to go through with this lesson. “I think,” he began, choosing his words carefully, “that this topic would be best discussed upstairs in my flat. Don’t you agree?” 

Now both of Crowley’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline in a move so quick that, by rights, it ought to have had a cartoon sound effect attached. “Well, this sounds interesting,” he said. “Sure.” 

Aziraphale’s heart started jackhammering at approximately the same speed as Crowley’s Bentley. “Good. We’ll, ah, go upstairs, then?” 

Miraculously, Crowley was quiet as he followed Aziraphale up the rickety back stairs - hidden behind a bookcase, of course - to his flat. “Tea?” Aziraphale said when they reached the top and he had closed the door behind him. “Or hot cocoa? I have both.” 

“I’m fine,” Crowley said, and went for Aziraphale’s favorite upholstered chair, draping himself over it like the serpent he occasionally preferred to be. “You’re prevaricating, angel. You don’t potter like this unless there’s something seriously wrong.” His face crumpled into a frown around his sunglasses. “Did I hurt you that badly?” 

“It’s not you,” Aziraphale replied, and sighed. “Well, it _is_, but not exactly…” How in heaven did one broach this sort of thing? It couldn’t be nearly as easy as Madame Tracy purported it to be, or else everyone would be as skilled as Madame Tracy. 

He sat down and looked around his flat. Pastels, of course, and flower patterns. Spare kitchen, but at least it got more use than the gleaming, shop-quality room that Crowley allowed to gather dust. How was this in any way a better place to convince Crowley of...well, _this_...than the bookshop? 

“Angel,” said Crowley, “you’re starting to scare the devil out of me.”[xii]

Aziraphale swallowed hard. _Right_, he thought, _time to buck up_. “Crowley,” he said, “perhaps this would be better discussed in the bedroom.” 

Crowley’s eyes lit up. “Angel,” he said, levering himself out of the chair, “you’re not saying -” 

“No, not exactly that,” Aziraphale hastened to say, although he was mightily tempted by the idea. After all, they had added a certain effort to their changed relationship only within the past month, and the temptation to grab Crowley and let his physical body take over for the next hour or so was unbelievably strong. But no, he had to stay strong; he hadn’t gone into a shop that made him blush like a sunset to balk at the last minute. “Just...just follow me.” 

He hadn’t meant to put a note of celestial command into the last sentence, but he must have. Crowley’s eyes widened and, meek as a lamb, he obeyed. 

Aziraphale had seen Crowley’s bedroom before, of course. In more than one sense, he had, in fact, forked in it. Crowley’s impersonal, coolly fashionable bedroom didn’t compare - in his opinion - to his own cluttered, book-laden chamber. He still found himself getting nervous whenever Crowley entered his inner sanctum, and as always, was gratified when Crowley smiled. “You still like what you see, I take it,” he said.

“‘Course.” Crowley clasped his hands and stretched them over his head, as if his joints would pop apart as easily and painlessly as Lego blocks. Aziraphale was never quite sure just how far the snake characteristics went. “So, what did you want to talk about?” 

“Well, in a sense...liking what you see. And misinterpreting what you see. And what we can do about that.” He could do this. He could _absolutely_ do this. He had guarded the Eastern Gate, survived the threat of the Apocalypse, and thrown holy water at a load of demons just for the fun of it. This was _nothing_. He smiled, and felt it turn feral, as what might be politely called an ‘effort’ made itself known in his trousers. “Crowley, dear, please do sit down.” 

Crowley’s pupils momentarily flared from their slit shape as he did what he was told, sitting just at the edge of Aziraphale’s tidily-made bed. “What’s…” 

“Shhh.” Aziraphale stepped into the space between Crowley’s parted legs and pressed a finger against his lips. _Grand gestures,_ Madame Tracy had said, _and make ‘em count. He’s soft for that, your demon._

“I believe there’s the small matter,” he said, “of you accusing me of being too...ebullient. Too sunshiny, was it? Living In the Sunlight constantly playing in my head?” 

Crowley’s gulp rang like a gong in the small room. “Angel, I didn’t...I was just angry. Frustrated.” 

“Ah, but you said it.” Aziraphale reluctantly walked away from Crowley, putting his hands behind his back to hide their trembling. He was really doing this. “I want to show you that there are other sides to me, Crowley. I’m not a Pollyanna . In fact, I have some…” He paused. If he made this too ridiculous, then Crowley would laugh and the moment would be broken. “...preferences. They might be, in some cases, considered rather dark. Do you understand what I mean?” 

Crowley’s already-enormous eyes widened even further as the irises finally covered the entire visible surface. “What are you saying, Aziraphale?” 

“I’m saying that...that I should like to teach you a bit of discipline. _My _discipline,” he hastened to clarify, “directed at you. I want to show you that if you push me hard enough, there’s nothing even remotely sunny about this particular angel of the Lord.” 

The demon’s mouth dropped open and his tongue flicked, once, to touch his upper lip. _“Fuck,” _ he croaked. 

And Aziraphale suddenly found himself making a splendid effort. 

After a few very long moments of mutual staring, Aziraphale took back the controls to his nervous system and bounced briefly on the balls of his feet. “Right,” he said. “Well, excellent. I’ve purchased some - educational tools, shall we say? I’ll fetch them. And while I do that,” he said, buoyed by Crowley’s reaction, “why don’t you take your clothes off, my dear?” Crowley immediately reached for his collar, and another idea struck Aziraphale like a beam of celestial light.[xiii] “_Neatly,” _he commanded, and received a whimper as a reward. 

His package[xiv] was in its wrapping, albeit having been cleaned before he stowed the contents away, hidden under a pile of folded jumpers in his wardrobe. By the time he turned around, various implements in hand, Crowley was undressed and coiled cross-legged on the bed. Aziraphale was pleased to see that his clothes were in an orderly pile. “Good boy,” he said. The words came unbidden to his lips, and he would have bitten them back if not for the strangled gulping noise that Crowley made. “You...like that?” 

“_Yessss._” Crowley licked his lips. His chest jumped with quick breaths. Given that they didn’t need to breathe, Aziraphale reflected, that was probably a sign of success on his part. “A lot.” His gaze drifted to Aziraphale’s hands, and the next noise out of his mouth was a moan. “Oh, _fuck…” _

“Yes, that’s right.” Aziraphale put everything but the item of interest on the floor. Then he smacked the riding crop against his palm and immediately regretted it. “Ow!” he yelped. It stung, but not as much as Crowley’s answering snicker. Goodness, he hoped the mood wasn’t ruined. “I’ll have you know that I’ve never done this before!” 

Crowley put a fist in front of his mouth and honest-to-Heaven _giggled._ This would be excellent blackmail material if he had anyone to give the information to, but Aziraphale was much more interested in making sure this actually went off as planned. “Couldn’t tell,” Crowley said between chortles. “Look, er...why don’t you just give me another order? I’ve already got a happy situation down here.” He gestured, entirely unnecessarily, at his crotch. “That’ll put me back in the right frame of mind.” 

“The issue is putting _me_ back in the right frame of mind,” Aziraphale snapped. “Now would you kindly stop laughing and let me get on with it, or do I have to end this now?” 

Crowley abruptly folded backwards to land on his outstretched hands. “Y-yeah. Yes. Of course.” His wide eyes were almost shimmering with...something. Lust? Yes, that was part of it. “Do what you want to me.” 

So he’d been telling the truth; he _did_ like that. Stinging palm aside, this had been a fruitful, if unintentional, experiment. “Tell me,” Aziraphale said, “do you also like to be tied up?”

“_Heaven and hell, _yes,” Crowley said fervently. “Got something to do with that, I’m guessing?” He gestured at the floor with his foot. “If it does - then please, please, _please_ with a sugarplum on top.” 

Aziraphale smiled and picked up the coils of rope. “My question does have to do with this rope, as it turns out,” he said. “How fortunate for you. Did anyone else ever do this for you before me?” 

“Sure.” Sweat glimmered on Crowley’s forehead. “Tried doing it to them, too. Wasn’t really my thing. Do you want me in any -” 

“Hush,” said Aziraphale, pursing his lips. “Now, I’d like to try something. Please turn over and hold out your arms and legs. One to each corner of the bed, if you please.” 

It was amusing how quickly Crowley scrambled to obey, but his skillful assumption of the requested position made it clear that he had a great deal of experience. Aziraphale bit back a groan. “That’s very good,” he said. “Now…” He unwound the rope and, careful not to pull too tightly, tied Crowley’s wrists and ankles to the bedposts[xv]. “Does that feel all right? I didn’t hurt you, did I?” 

Crowley tested the ropes. “They’re fine,” he said. He had his head turned, his cheek pressed into Aziraphale’s pillow, and he grinned with a flash of those sharp serpentine teeth. “Don’t worry, angel. I’m not about to break.” 

“Well, it’s not that I’m worried about. I just don’t want to...make you feel hurt. Or hurt you - I’m sorry, I’m not quite sure exactly what I’m trying to say.” Aziraphale huffed in frustration. “At any rate, if you tell me ‘no’ or ‘stop’, I’ll stop at once. If you tell me to slow down, I will.” 

“You don’t need a safe word?” Crowley asked. 

“‘No’ will produce an automatic response in me. I couldn’t play at continuing, if you asked me to stop,” Aziraphale replied. “I hope that’s all right with you.” 

Crowley nodded into the pillow. “No problem.” 

“Oh, jolly good.” Aziraphale picked up the crop. “Are you ready now?” Another nod. “Well, then.” 

He stepped back a few paces and surveyed the beauty of the demon laid out before him. Crowley was thin, but with his legs spread, the lean muscles of his thighs strained in place and the slight curve of his buttocks was far more prominent than usual. His shoulder blades and the dip of his spine were shadowed in the lamplight, and his back moved up and down with every quick breath. “My goodness,” Aziraphale said, swallowing against his dry throat, “I certainly like what I see. Now, how should I touch it?” 

“_Nnnh_,” Crowley said. 

“Quiet now, dear,” Aziraphale said, and laid his palm on the smooth skin of Crowley’s arse. “Hmm...just here, I think.” He squeezed the flesh gently, gauging the amount of fat he had to work with, and then brought down the riding crop just hard enough to produce a sharp _whap. _

Crowley keened at a frequency previously only reached by several species of stinging insects, and jolted in place as if he’d been shocked. “Are you all right, dear?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley nodded so hard that the bed creaked. “Right.” That was heartening, at least, even if it was what the children these days might call ‘creepy.’ “Good. Well, you were a - er, a bad demon.” He watched Crowley for signs of rebellion or offense, found none, and caressed him again. “Yes, quite a bad demon for making those noises! I think you deserve another.” 

He administered a second smack to the neglected buttock, barely hard enough to sting. Crowley ground his hips down against the mattress. “Ah, ah - none of that.” Aziraphale stroked down the line of his spine from just beneath his shoulder blades to just above his cleft. “Hold still, my dear, and take your discipline like a good demon. Just…_here_.” He cropped a path around the lower curves of Crowley’s buttocks, ending at the endearing triangles of ever-so-slightly wobbly flesh where his inner thighs met his pelvis.[xvi] “There now, you’re doing well so far.” 

Aziraphale sat back on his heels and considered the situation. Crowley’s bum was turning a soft, irritated pink wherever he’d cropped it, which had him absolutely _throbbing_. Goodness, if this was how people got their boulders off, no wonder those sorts of shops were so ubiquitous. “I have a question for you,” he said. “Nod for yes, shake your head for no. Would you like more of this?” Crowley nodded, and nodded, and _nodded_. “All right. But I shan’t do any more than I’m comfortable with.” 

He lifted the crop again and brought it down, just a little harder than before, on the backs of Crowley’s thighs. All the resources he’d consulted said that one ought to wait between smacks to heighten one’s partner’s anticipation, so that is precisely what he did. _Smack_ and pause - _smack_ and pause - all up Crowley’s thighs and arse, taking care not to get too close to his spine. Every time the crop came down, he felt himself get just a bit more flustered. Just a bit harder. The way Crowley quivered told him that the demon was experiencing exactly the same problem. “My darling.” The term slipped past his lips before he could stop it. “Oh, Crowley.” 

This was getting to be so - so intense. Aziraphale pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, welcoming the way the light wavered with the pressure to match the pounding of his heart everywhere that blood pooled. “You’ve been very, very good, taking that for me,” he said. Goosebumps rippled down the length of Crowley’s back and legs as soon as he finished the sentence, stark even in the low light. “Oh, you _do_ like it when I say that, don’t you?” 

“Yes, you absolute b -” Crowley cut himself off with a gulp. “I mean - yes, angel. I like that. Fffff - _fuck_.” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale mock-reprimanded. “Goodness, such language. Naughty demon.” Crowley shivered. “I’m going to untie you now and do things to your front.” Crowley visibly perked up at that. “No, not that. Something else.” 

“Anything else and I might discorporate,” Crowley groaned. 

Aziraphale moved to untie his knots. “You know I wouldn’t let that happen. Oh,” he added as Crowley flipped over, “isn’t that a lovely sight?” Crowley was flushed pink from his forehead to his belly, accenting his delectable neck and ears on the way down. He didn’t think he’d ever seen his demon’s eyes look more snakelike. “Can I trust you to stay still while I play with you, my dear?” He sneaked a look down at Crowley’s groin. His erection could best be described as ‘eager.’ Possibly ‘ready to pop at any second’ would be more accurate, but he wasn’t one for hyperbole. 

“Mm,” Crowley groaned, bucking his hips into the empty air. “You’re gonna kill me, angel.” 

Aziraphale declined to comment on that, instead putting a steadying hand on Crowley’s lower belly and then bending to pick up the third of his purchases from the floor. “Have you ever seen one of these?” 

The apple of Crowley’s throat bobbed. “Y-yeah. Yeah, I have. What’re _you_ doing with it?” 

Aziraphale held up the tool. It was a cunning little silver wheel with spikes around the circumference, and it looked almost like a work of Heavenly art.[xvii] “This is meant to play with the skin, isn’t it? I plan to do that with you. If you behave yourself and hold _exceptionally_ still, I’ll consider letting you...well.” He held his hand briefly above Crowley’s erection, relishing the look on Crowley’s face. “Now, I hope I don’t have to tell you again to hold still, dear.” 

Crowley whimpered, but lowered his hips and lay back. 

Aziraphale smiled and spun the wheel with a fingertip, testing the sharpness again. Madame Tracy said that he could use it in sensitive places, but he would not hurt Crowley.He would rather die[xviii] than go back on his word. Satisfied that he’d regained his familiarity with the sensation, he lowered the wheel to one of Crowley’s delectable inner thighs and oh-so-gently ran it upwards along the path of his sartorius.

Crowley, to his credit, barely moved even as he squeaked in response to Aziraphale’s movements. Aziraphale used the tiniest movements to turn the wheel, rolling and flicking it from Crowley’s knees all the way up to the creases on either side of his groin. Wherever the spikes touched, faint pink marks appeared on the delicate skin. Aziraphale entertained the question of what a bruise might look like if he sucked it into such skin, and groaned as his own erection responded to the thought. “Do you want this on your nipples, too?” he asked instead. Crowley’s nipples[xix] stood out as two hard, brownish-pink points on his hair-dusted chest. 

“Yngh,” said Crowley, and downright vibrated. 

“My goodness,” Aziraphale told him, raising the wheel, “since you put that request in so well, I think I have to fulfill it.” He lowered the wheel to Crowley’s left nipple and gently, _so_ gently, spiraled it around the crinkled areola to the most sensitive point in the middle. Then he looked up and was rewarded by the sight of Crowley sinking his teeth into his lower lip as he squeezed his eyes shut.

He rolled the wheel over Crowley’s nipple until the demon gave a faint whimper, then moved it to the other side. “This is very enticing to watch, you know,” he said in the most conversational tone he could manage, bending at the waist so that he could kiss the recently-abandoned nipple and flick it with his tongue. Crowley was audibly grinding his teeth. “I suppose I ought to stop teasing you.” 

“Yes,” Crowley said, “yesss, _God_.” Aziraphale could feel his heartbeat under his lips. When their eyes met, Crowley was staring at him, pupils hugely dilated in a way that no true snake’s could be. “Angel,” Crowley pleaded, “if you do this any longer, I’ll...I’ll discorporate and go to hell. And I don’t think they want to see me there.”[xx]

“You realize, I hope, that these threats are hardly new,” Aziraphale told him. He set the wheel aside, dipped his head, and kissed Crowley thoroughly. Crowley eagerly returned the kiss, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s waist and squirming until Aziraphale found himself on top of him. “Oh, my,” he gasped. The novelty of Crowley’s bare body against his clothed one was more arousing than he thought possible. “So - you...Crowley!” Crowley had moved on from kissing him to tonguing his ear. “I - I’m not a sunshine crayon now, am I?” 

“Bloody heaven, no,” Crowley said fervently into the tender space below Aziraphale’s earlobe. “You’re...you’re a...oh, _angel_.” Aziraphale ran his hands up and down his sides, relishing the sound of his groans. “Fuck, can’t think. Not when you - you do that. Tell me what you are.” 

Aziraphale nipped Crowley’s neck, just below his chin, and sucked hard. That would be a bruise tomorrow, and he doubted that Crowley would want to miracle it away. Perhaps he would be receptive to being ordered to leave it. “Carnelian,” he said, grabbing as much of Crowley’s arse as he could reach. “Turquoise. Tyrian purple. Indigo. Fuchsia.” 

“Gold,” Crowley countered. 

“That’s a sort of yellow.” 

“Yeah, but ‘s’ssssaturated, something like - Sssatan’s short ones, keep doing that.” Crowley clutched at Aziraphale’s shoulders as he began to undo his trousers with one hand and rubbed Crowley’s erection with the other. “Beautiful, jussst like you, just...fuck, angel, _fuck, I love you!” _

Aziraphale got his trousers down past his hips and miracled his hand to the desired slipperiness. “Wait,” he said. “Hang on, I want to try something -” He pulled away, ignoring Crowley’s moan of disappointment, and propped himself up on one elbow. “I want to see you touch yourself.” The boldness of the demand made him blush, even after all he’d told Crowley to do already, but the moan that bubbled up from Crowley’s throat told him that the demon didn’t mind. “Yes, and I’ll do the same. I want to see your face.” 

“Bloody filthy,” Crowley huffed, maneuvering himself into position. He curled his hand into a loose fist around his length and stroked, a single pull to the tip that drew a groan from his parted lips. Aziraphale helplessly mimicked the movement. After spending so long with his arousal trapped in his trousers, this was such sweet relief that he could have wept. 

Crowley’s pink face grew redder with every stroke, emphasizing the almost-mercurial color of his eyes. _Sunset_, Aziraphale thought. _Tiger’s eye, heavenly fire_ \- and he came so hard that stars danced in front of him. 

He was dimly aware of Crowley convulsing and making similar sounds, but it wasn’t until he fully recovered his senses that he realized Crowley had come as well. “Goodness,” said Aziraphale. “Are you all right?” 

Crowley jerkily put his arms behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. “You tell me,” he said. “Give us a cuddle, would you?” 

Aziraphale happily obliged, and Crowley hung on with a grip approximately as stiff and clingy as the average case of rigor mortis. Nevertheless, Aziraphale felt no need to extract himself. Loving Crowley came with loving everything about him, including his apparent need to wrap around him in snake form and human form alike. “Still convinced I’ve nothing but fluff between my ears?” he asked, kissing the top of Crowley’s head. 

“Nuh.” Crowley rubbed his nose against the notch of Aziraphale’s collarbone. “Fine, you got one over on me. Don’t let it go to your head, angel.” He butted his head against Aziraphale’s chin, belying the acid in his voice. “Stay here until I pass out or something, would you?” 

“Certainly.” Aziraphale hugged him tighter. He felt wonderfully heavy and fuzzy, like he’d sunk into a hot bath and stayed there for an hour on a cold night. “But these sorts of lessons can continue, if that’s what you want. I - I certainly do.” He hid his flushed cheeks in Crowley’s hair. 

He could feel Crowley’s smile. “Whatever you like.” 

“_Fuck_,” Aziraphale said, with feeling, and let himself float off into a nap to the sound of Crowley snickering. 

* * *

[i] It was true that they weren’t drinking, but nothing in the world could stop Aziraphale from enjoying a good sponge cake when he took a fancy, and that was in fact exactly what he was doing.

[ii] Think about who his mother is. You’ll get it. I believe in you.

[iii] Almost as much as he loved Aziraphale himself.

[iv] It was a term that amused him to use in a non-religious context, even if he felt blasphemous. However, his mixed feelings on the Internet had to do mostly with those who, regarding pornography, acted as obnoxiously entitled in reality as Gabriel had pretended to do.

[v] Aziraphale had a good deal of experience with public libraries through the years, and still couldn’t quite reconcile himself to the idea that everything therein should be privatized. Ridiculous. Where would the homeless people go?

[vi] In reality, it had to do with Crowley’s level of mental urgency, but Aziraphale had a strange number of blind spots where Crowley’s thinking was concerned.

[vii] As well they should.

[viii] He had said so on a number of occasions, most notably 1989, Harrods, the Refusal to Share The Last Bite of Sweeties Incident.

[ix] Sodom and Gomorrah. He just let Sandalphon take the credit. But the smiting in question had not occurred for, as Crowley would put it, “the gay sex thing.” Aziraphale’s views on hospitality were Set In Stone.

[x] The devil did not care.

[xi] Twenty minutes later, as he left with a black-wrapped package under his arm, he realized he could have simply gone to the riding supply shop three streets away.

[xii] Coming from Crowley, this was a far more worrisome statement than it would be in a human mouth.

[xiii] Not the kind that could in any way discorporate him, thankfully. No, Heaven was not aware of this.

[xiv]Get your mind out of the gutter. That’s my job.

[xv] Aziraphale had spent several hours, two nights ago, practicing these exact knots. He was fairly sure that he could do them in his sleep, if he slept regularly.

[xvi] This was the only soft part of Crowley, but it did exist. Not even demons, unconstrained by physics as they are, can escape the fact that human-shaped bodies have to have ischioanal fossae in order for everything to work correctly.

[xvii] When he told this to the shop assistant, she convulsed in laughter. He still wasn’t quite sure why.

[xviii] Or deal with Gabriel again, which was undoubtedly what discorporating would entail.

[xix] Despite what Shadwell suspected about him, he only had the two.

[xx] Especially not naked and bearing the marks of recent bondage. Nope.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm godihatethisfreakingcat on Tumblr, and I love feedback. <3


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